I Went Searching For an Indian and Found I Was a Dutchman

I Went Searching for an Indian and Found I Was a Dutchman.

I've always been interested in history so when my Uncle Wayne gave me some information about our family roots I had to begin changing the way I've always thought about where I came from. We had always been told, "there's Indian blood in our ancestry, we just haven't been able to prove it". I have been surprised to learn that while searching for an Indian link, I found a Dutchman. Now I'm not saying there may not be some Indian blood somewhere but the prospect looks dimmer the more I find out.

I also have had some general prejudices about folks back east, especially areas like Ohio (I grew up in the Woody Hayes era and couldn't stand Ohio State). What a surprise (and God ordained I believe) to find we arrived in Ohio in the early 1800s, my ancestor fought in an Ohio Regiment in the Civil War, and came to Kansas afterwards. That, and some visits to Ohio, has adjusted my thinking.

And the other reason why-to keep communication between the far flung members of my family and encourage them to drop a note so we can keep in touch with the details of their lives. We miss too much by not being there in the day to day workings of life. So, leave a post for all of us.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Faustino Abella, 31, was
hurrying back to his ship,the Navasota, a tanker at the Long Beach Navy base,
when it happened in the morning darkness, about 5:30 a.m.

His wife, Jennie May, 30,
was driving the car when it stalled on the approach to the Ocean Street Bridge
overthe Los Angeles River. A woman in another car
offered to give them a push. But when the Abellas' car started, the gas pedal
apparently jammed. The car roared up the bridge, jumped the curb, tore out 37
feet of railing, hit a concrete abutment and plunged 20 feet into the water,
landing upside-down.

As Navy divers worked to
recover the bodies from the overturned car at the bottom of the river, four
children were waiting for their mother's return: Faustino Abella Jr., who was
18 months old, and three girls from her previous marriage, Gloria Jean, 12;
Mary, 10; and Susan, 9. The home at2100 W. Willard St., in Long Beach, was
sparsely decorated for the holidays with a small Christmas tree in a corner and
a single package.

Several hours later, Long
Beach police officers told the children their parents were dead and took them
to Juvenile Hall because there was no one to care for them. "With
anguished tears, the girls gathered up a few belongings, their little brother
clutched a toy truck in both arms and they went along," The Times said.

Mrs. Sam Novak, a
great-aunt living in San Diego, took custody of four children, saying:
"I'd have gone to them if I'd have had to crawl."

The next day, Jennie's
parents, Samuel and Minnie Icke, arrived after an all-night drive from St. Louis,
where they were raising four more of her children: Claude Capps, 15; Charles,
13; Susan's twin brother Bobby; and Sammy, 8.

Samuel began disposing of
the few pieces of furniture in the home and settling Jennie's affairs before
taking the children back to St. Louis. Faustino's funeral was held in the
Philippines, where he was born, while Jennie's was held in St. Louis.

The Lafayette Hotel hosted
the family for Christmas dinner and gave them a check, but beyond that, we
don't know what became of the children. We can only hope for the best.

When I was just a young pup, in the 60’s and 70’s, every
year we went to the Icke (pronounced “Ike”) family reunion in Carmen, Oklahoma,
the first weekend in August. My
grandmother Rachel was an Icke and we rarely missed one. Through my childhood, and into my teen years,
there was an old curmudgeon who came from St. Louis named Sam Icke. He was supposedly a cousin of my
grandmother’s but it was always a bit fuzzy where he fit into the people who
were important to me.

He was old (to me anyway), had a cigar (early on at least if
I remember. I always knew that was a
no-no), outspoken and opinionated but he did buy all the “sodie” for the
reunion. He would go downtown and buy
cases of “pop” (which is what WE called it) and on the Sunday of the reunion
(while we were, of course, at church), he iced it down and had it ready at the
Carmen City Park Pavilion (or alternately at the old skating rink if the park
was taken). I’m not sure if I liked Sam
or not, given his brashness, but if I did dislike him, it was tempered by his
purchase of sodie. As a kid, that
balanced things out for me.

Sam would always tell us, “you kids don’t waste that sodie!”
because we were always tempted to open one, drink a little, shake it up and squirt
each other. He was grumpy that way. As a kid I couldn’t understand the big deal.
As an adult I understand. As an adult I
am Sam-like that way.

Anyway, Sam would bring his second wife Olga (his first wife
had died) along with his grandson Tino.
I never understood why his parents didn’t come but vaguely remember
being told his parents had died and that was good enough for me the kid. Tino was a few years older than me and he
would pal around with me and my cousins like an older brother. He was always smiling. I remember as just a young teenager being
struck one year to find out that he wasn’t coming anymore. He died suddenly at 17 from a heart problem. I found that strange but being a self involved
teenage-type person it didn’t affect me too much.

Then comes today, November 24, 2012, my 33rd
wedding anniversary, and I’m going through the papers, newspaper articles and
such, that I got from my grandmother.
She lived with my aunt Leta and uncle Loyd Wilson her last years and
when aunt Leta passed, uncle Loyd thought it best to pass the papers on to the
family so gave them to uncle Vic. Uncle
Loyd’s thoughtful that way. Uncle Vic sent them to the last reunion and I
brought them home. The last few days I
have had a chance to scan some in to put on Ancestry.com.

I found a strange article (it’s below) talking about a
tragic accident where a couple were killed when their car went into a river and
they drowned. The couple, Mr and Mrs
Faustine Abella, left behind eight children and it said the couple was the
daughter of a cousin of my grandmother’s.
Still not knowing how it all went together, I filed it under my
grandmother’s documents and moved on. I
then found a full page article about Sam Icke, telling of all the things he
does at age 76-roofing, gardening, fiddling, dancing, quilt-making and so forth. As I read the article, it mentions Sam raised
his grandchildren after the tragic death of his daughter and son-in-law. Wait a minute-wasn’t Tino’s last name Abella? Then it all came together like a jigsaw
puzzle.

I began trying to figure out how Sam was related so I could
attach the articles to the right records on Ancestry. He couldn’t be a first cousin because none of
grandma’s brothers had a son named Sam that fit (although she did have a brother-wrong
age though). Could it be her dad, John
Cheatum Icke’s, brother’s kids? Sure
enough, a Samuel Lee Icke popped up.
Born 1900, moved to Oklahoma as a child, then back home to St. Louis,
and died in November 1978. A perfect
fit.

Sam had a wife, Minnie, who had died (fit again) and two
daughters-one was Jenny May who died in 1957.
Was that the right date? I
flipped over the article to find an ad for the local theater. It was showing,
on January 7,8, & 9, 3:10 to Yuma. I
went over to IMDB.com to research and found 3:10 to Yuma was released in
1957. It was showing in Oklahoma in
January 1958. Bingo.

Once I input Jenny May under Sam, Ancestry found her death
certificate-Los Angeles California in 1957.
So I added a husband, Faustine Abella, and up came his death
certificate-same place, same time. But I
did find he’s actually Faustino Abella and was from, per the certificate,
“other country”. I then put in Tino and
seven other unknown children under him and lo and behold, up pops Tino’s death
certificate. And his name wasn’t Tino-it
was Faustino as well. He was less than a year old when his parents died. He passed as well in 1973 at the age of 17-in
Illinois where his grandparents lived.

Sam always was a curmudgeon, as I noted at the beginning,
but knowing what I know now-the life he lived as a young kid, moving to Indian
Territory in a covered wagon, moving back east again, suffering the tragic loss
of his child, the pain of his orphaned grandchildren, the loss of a wife, then
again of a beloved grandson he raised, can you blame him?

So, why is history so important? These people aren’t just dusty facts. They are real people who live lives just like
us. For some it’s harder. Maybe if we know their history, instead of
being a curmudgeon, they suddenly become giant heroes. I’m proud to be related to Sam. I hope I’m half the man he was.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

We laid the Wingman to rest in a little cemetery north of Belvue, Kansas, not far from the Union Pacific tracks where his father called a workplace. The Wingman's dad worked for the UPRR and moved the family up and down the tracks to the various little towns in northeast Kansas. I know this because the Wingman gave me the book he wrote, Sunflower Wild, about growing up and going off to war. The Wingman's name was George Joseph Brooks. LIEUTENANT George Joseph Brooks, US Army Air Corps, DFC, retired.

The little cemetery sits alongside a dirt road about a mile north of Belvue, surrounded by soybean and corn which aren't faring too well due to the terrible drought and heat of this unique summer. All the crops look pretty bad except those gaining the benefit of a huge irrigator arm in the field next to the cemetery. It's obvious which of the beans are getting the moisture and which are on the periphery gasping for it. But today is a unique day in that this day, of all the days over the past few months, is graced with overcast skies, cool breezes, and a drizzle in the air. It's a little damp but we don't mind after all the dryness. It actually feels good. And a little moisture won't bother us as we gather to honor the Wingman.

Even the army honor guard isn't bothered as they stand waiting for the Wingman and his family to arrive. They're about a half hour late but for all the he has done, no one cares. I sit in my car, peering in the rear view window through the detail towards the rock wall gates waiting for them to arrive. It's obvious when it occurs because the detail suddenly comes to attention and gives due respect. After they park, those of us waiting get out and slowly make our way past the detachment to the covered grave.

After everyone settles, the detachment, in their very military way, marches to the hearse and crisply move the Wingman to the grave site, his coffin properly draped in the national colors under which he fought. They retire and we give ear to hear the hospice chaplain recount to us comforting words from The Word-reminders of the One larger than us and His comfort and care for us. Frankly I'm not one much for women preachers but she did a nice job. As if on cue, out of south, came the distinctive whistle of a steam engine. Of all days for an old steamer to come down the UP tracks, it was this day-and time. A coincidence? I don't think it was planned to coincide with the Wingman's ceremony but a coincidence it wasn't. It was so significant, even the chaplain paused to take note of the uniqueness of the event. She then continued on, recounting the Wingman's exploits which I matched up in my head from what I had learned from his book.

He went off to war back in the 1940s when he was just a young man of 18. Away from a small community where no one strayed very far from home, to Texas where he trained to be an airplane pilot. He progressed through his training until the day when he was proclaimed a newly minted Lieutenant and of all things, given the controls of the magnificent P-51 Mustang. From England then eventually France, he would fly to do his part to end the Nazi aggression. On one fateful day in 1944 he was doing his duty as, you guessed it, the Wingman. It was August 13, 1944, his fifth mission (exactly 68 years ago today).

As they flew over France, the Leader took some German fighters under his guns and in the swirling fury of a WWII dogfight, P-51s up against ME-109s and FW-190s, the Leader managed to down three and the Wingman two. As they limped for home the Wingman noted the Leader's plane was a bit worse for the wear. In fact, he barely made it back. The Wingman wasn't so lucky. The oil temperature went up, the engine died, and flies began coming from under the instruments, burning off the Wingman's wool socks, He tried and tried to get the canopy off, but to no avail, until he remembered some words from training. Suddenly the canopy, and the Wingman were away. His parachute barely opened, an apple tree breaking his fall. He was now a resident of France. For the skills he used that day, he helped the Leader get home and won for himself the Distinguished Flying Cross and Purple Heart.

The Wingman and "Kansas Aggie"

The Wingman managed to evade the enemy with the help of some kind French folk, eventually made his way back to friendly lines, now a full fledged member of the Air Force's Escape and Evasion Society for life. His hand badly burned, he was treated and eventually returned to duty to fly more missions and even serve again during Korea. After all that excitement the war ended and he went home to take up a job with the US postal service, somewhat dull in comparison to his life thus far (commented the chaplain). The Wingman lived his life like most of us, getting married a few years later, but he never gave up his love of flying. He even built three of his own planes, one from an old Volkswagen, and one from a kit. He used them to help the students at K-State learn aviation.

I met him many years ago through his brother Larry with whom I worked. George was kind enough to allow me into his world, showing me his plane and sharing with me his memorabilia. He shared with me his book, videos of his interview as a veteran, and his memories. It was my privilege to call him my friend and I tried to remember each year on his birthday (February 14) and Veteran's Day to send him a card again thanking him and his family for such a sacrifice for me and my family. It was a small thing. Which is why I had to rearrange my schedule and show up today.

With the chaplain's part done, she turned the service over to the army detail who, in classic format, just like the movies, they carried out their duty. Only it was different this time. This was no movie. They lined up and gave George the required ritual for a hero-three volleys of seven shots and the mournful notes of Taps. It was a struggle to stay composed but a necessary duty. They then marched to the coffin, removed the flag, and so very precisely folded it, working every crease, to make it perfect. They handed it off to the command Sergeant who checked it over again, dug into his pocket and placed within the folds an item unknown to me, and walked to George's widow.

I've seen it a hundred times but the motions, the words, "from a grateful nation" churn my heart, as it obviously does others who openly weep, all restraint having been lost. But that's ok. Times like these are reserved for such emotional carnage. Thankfully, for me, the moment passes. Composure is gained, the chaplain says a final blessing and I wander back to my car. I look out over the bean field and listen to the gentle whoosh of the misters and the chup-chup of the sprayer on the irrigator. It was nice. This is the land for which George fought and was willing to die at such a young age. It was good we remembered him this day.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

This morning while the wife and the dog were still sleeping and the birds chirping, I ran across something I wrote and bound for my girls when they were still at home. Advice from me to them. I thought you might like it as I reread them myself.

I have no greater joy than this, to hear of my children walking in the truth. 3 John 4

When you are looking for a life's mate, make sure he exhibits these two qualities (besides being a Christian): honesty and unselfishness. If he is a man of integrity and will serve his family's needs before his own, he is worthy of consideration. If he's selfish and isn't honest in his dealings with others, drop him like a hot rock. Chances are he won't get better; he has a basic flaw from his earlier years of training. Trust God to help you find a mate but use these two items for guides. (PS-If he asks you for sex to prove your love for him-FLEE! He is both dishonest and selfish.

God is rarely early but always on time.

Think of money as a tool. It is an item used to accomplish a task. As a hammer is used to build a wall or a sweeper is used to clean a floor, so money is used to accomplish a task (like pay a bill, buy food, etc). Don't allow it to have more importance than it should have. Once you have a hammer or a sweeper, you have enough to accomplish the task God has given you, you have enough. Don't let this "tool" dominate your life any more than you would let a hammer or sweeper dominate your life. God has promised to meet our needs i.e. to provide us with the tools for any job He gives us. Be satisfied with what you have, because if you can't you won't be satisfied with more. 1 Tim 6.6

Your reaction to any situation in life is more important than the situation itself. Remember, God put you there. Your reaction to the impact shows your faith. Matt 5.39.

There is on greater calling in life for a woman than to be a wife and mother. If God should give you a husband and children consider it a privilege to put them first and make an impact on your family. If you have a family, they come first, before your own wants and plans. If you bring children into the world, it is you and your husband's responsibility to take care of them. No one else is as qualified as you to do it. If you put your family's needs ahead of yours and invest your best in them, you will be fulfilled and have no regrets.

Don't find your happiness anywhere else but in God. "Rejoice that your name is written in the Book of Life". Luke 10.20. He is your "portion"-your allotted amount. With Him you have everything you need in life.

People are more important than programs or things. Invest your time in people because programs and things won't last into eternity, only people and God's Word. Don't run over people to accomplish programs or to get things done. It can't be God's will if you have to harm others to get it done.

Don't be tempted to continually change cars to "keep up with the Jones'" The cheapest car to have is the one you already have.

Guard your good name (Proverbs 22.1). Always try to keep your good name pure and unsullied. Remember you are a Bartlow. Although there have been some through the years who have been scoundrels, by and large we are a people of honesty and integrity. This is true a hundred-fold as a Christian. We must do our best to never let dishonor come to the name of Jesus, the One who gave Himself for us. Finally remember that a good name is easy to lose but hard to get back. (Remember at family reunions we always cleaned up the place better than we found it? This wan't to ensure the return of a deposti or the like but because it would be dishonorable to leave it dirty).

As you go out into the world, watch out for Satan. He will mask himself as a heavenly messenger (Gal 1.8-9), an angel of light (2 Cor 13.14), a false prophet, etc. Know God's Word and use it as a filter for your mind to protect yourself from the Evil One.

Motivation. What is your motivation for what you do? There are really only two: God and self. Many people do many good things (for friends, family, etc) but their motivation is still self. It makes them feel good. Make you motivation to please Christ in all you do. then when you do something good it will please Christ AND make you feel good. Col 3.23.

Change the oil in your car at least every 5000 miles (3000 would be better). It will save you thousands of dollars.

Rotate the tires on your car every 6000 miles. It will save you hundreds of dollars.

Check the fluid levels in your car at least twice a month and before trips. It will save you thousands of dollars.

Make sure the car you're driving has a spare tire and you know how to change it.

Find a good mechanic and service station. Trade there consistently even if it costs more. It will pay off in the long run.

Keep your car garaged if possible. It will last longer that way.

Giving thanks to God honors Him. Be sure to thank God for all the things in life, including your next breath. By thanking God you also make a way for Him so show His salvation to you (Psalms 50.23).

Be prompt and on time for engagements. By being late, you show disdain and disrespect for the other person. Remember, their time is important to them also.

The story of the wise and foolish builders. (Luke 6.40ff). The wise one built his house on the rock-the rock of faith in Christ. The stones in his foundation are the trials of life that build faith. Don't consider the trials of life as 'bad" things but opportunities to trust God so that your faith is build up and you have a strong foundation that will stand when the big trials come. James says "consider it pure joy" (Jas 1) for trials build perseverance and faith so you may be mature. No one relishes bad times, but don't consider them negatives-God knew they were coming to you before you were born. As Job said, "Should I accept the good from the Lord and not the bad?".

Don't be ashamed if your lot in life is "only" a wife and mother. More lives have been affected for the good by a mother in a well-run household than all the lawyers, doctors, politicians, etc, combined. The world doesn't need any more of the latter but could use plenty more of the former.

Be faithful to study God's Word daily. It is the very Word of God entrusted to your care. To not study diligently and hold it in high regard in the decisions of your life is foolish and a betrayal of the sacred trust given to you by the One who died in your place.

In your marriage, never bring up old wrongs. Once they're discussed and forgiven, they're gone. God did it for you-do it for your mate.

Think before you promise to do something. It is better to not promise than to promise and not do it (Deut 23.21-23). If you tell someone that you'll do something (including God), then do it and don't look for an easy way out of it. God takes no pleasure in fools who don't fulfill their vows (Ecc 5.4-5).

Laugh a lot! It's good for the bones. God never intended our Christian lives to be a drudgery, but a joy and an adventure. I hope you'll always remember me as laughing!

If you marry, be gentle with your husband. After the honeymoon is over, he may not tell you he loves you as much, or may not gently touch you as much or do the little things as much. It isn't because he doesn't care, it's because he thinks he has proven his love and doesn't need to do it again. Gently remind him that you still need those things and do it in a way which doesn't harm his ego. Our (males) egos are fragile and easily bruised. Also, don't become hardened to him if he doesn't do the things you like. Talk with him-he probably doesn't have a clue that you're unhappy or what you're unhappy about. COMMUNICATE! It's one of the best tools to combat Satan's attempts to separate you.

Although I have tried to be a good father, and much of what you think about your relationship to God as father you get from your relationship with me, remember that God is the perfect Father. Where I have failed, He will not. He will always do what is best for you. Matt 7.9-11.

One final thing. Where ever you go in the world, if you make mistakes (and you will), remember there is always forgiveness and restoration at home. At our home, and at God's (1 John 1.9).

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty on 23 May 1944, near Carano, Italy. With his platoon heavily engaged during an assault against forces well entrenched on commanding ground, 2d Lt. Barfoot (then Tech. Sgt.) moved off alone upon the enemy left flank. He crawled to the proximity of 1 machinegun nest and made a direct hit on it with a hand grenade, killing 2 and wounding 3 Germans. He continued along the German defense line to another machinegun emplacement, and with his tommygun killed 2 and captured 3 soldiers. Members of another enemy machinegun crew then abandoned their position and gave themselves up to Sgt. Barfoot. Leaving the prisoners for his support squad to pick up, he proceeded to mop up positions in the immediate area, capturing more prisoners and bringing his total count to 17. Later that day, after he had reorganized his men and consolidated the newly captured ground, the enemy launched a fierce armored counterattack directly at his platoon positions. Securing a bazooka, Sgt. Barfoot took up an exposed position directly in front of 3 advancing Mark VI tanks. From a distance of 75 yards his first shot destroyed the track of the leading tank, effectively disabling it, while the other 2 changed direction toward the flank. As the crew of the disabled tank dismounted, Sgt. Barfoot killed 3 of them with his tommygun. He continued onward into enemy terrain and destroyed a recently abandoned German fieldpiece with a demolition charge placed in the breech. While returning to his platoon position, Sgt. Barfoot, though greatly fatigued by his Herculean efforts, assisted 2 of his seriously wounded men 1,700 yards to a position of safety. Sgt. Barfoot's extraordinary heroism, demonstration of magnificent valor, and aggressive determination in the face of pointblank fire are a perpetual inspiration to his fellow soldiers.

Friday, March 9, 2012

We were all enjoying looking over the bridesmaid when the bride showed up about 1600. The old 24 suddenly became a nice place to stand in the shade while we watched the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress land and taxi up to the static display area. She had everyone’s attention. Even though the 24 flew higher, longer, and carried a bigger payload, the 17 always has been the darling of the show and one can see why. Where the 24 waddles, bobs and weaves as it taxis, the 17 is a graceful lady and there is also no comparison when in flight. It’s no wonder folks have flocked to her in droves. One can even tell it by the number of folks who paid to fly on her these few days. The 24 had two flights this evening; the 17 had three. And tomorrow the 24 wouldn’t leave the ground except to fly to KC while the 17 garnered 4 more flights.

Anyway the 17 came to a stop west the 24. We had to hold back the crowds as they rubbernecked trying to get just that right photo. Brad, by the strength of his personality, held them all back himself while the rest of us went to the bomb bay to get the cones and string out the rope around the plane. The cones were held, six at a time by a piece of threaded rod and hooks, to the inside of each bomb bay door. It seemed so strange to see the 17 sitting there in its tail down position. Whereas the 24 has a tricycle landing gear arrangement (one under each wing and one at the nose) so it sits fairly level when parked, the 17 is a “tail-dragger” with a wheel under each wing and a tail wheel, the failure of which caused its delay from Pueblo, Colorado today. The tour for the 17 started with a ladder up into the crew access door in the front port side (remember Gregory Peck in “12 O’clock High”?) where one would normally reach up and grasp the frame like a pull up bar and swing one’s legs up and in. The queue was about 50 people long by now and they began to be able to go into the plane.

For this particular tour, they went in via the aforementioned hatch which brings one in under the flight deck and gives one a view to your left of the nose arrangement: bombardier and navigator positions. You then moved to your right through the radio operator/flight engineer/upper turret gunner “room”. I say “room” as I noticed while the 24 was laid out in such a way one always was watching out for head banger and shin knockers and always climbing over and around things. While it is true the 17 also had plenty of tight spots, it appeared to have had more thought put into simple things that made it easier to get around and more comfortable for the crew. This area even had a hatch, about four foot by three foot in the upper fuselage forward of the upper turret that could be taken out and left open even in flight. More about that later. Anyway, then one went on the catwalk through the bomb bay and into the next “room” which contained the lower ball turret housing and waist gunner positions. On the starboard side was an exit door much more like a passenger airliner. From there, they had up a canvas bulkhead and no one was able to go back into the tail gunner position. I understand it’s accessed by a small tunnel and would be difficult for tourists to get in and out of without holding up the show.

I tell you all about this tour however I never got inside the plane until the moment I got in the rear door to go on the flight. More about that later. At this time I was busy watching the crowd and Brad and I got back to our grease wiping duties. The pilot (sorry I never caught his name as he was always gracious and kind, never forgetting to thank us grease monkeys for taking care of his plane) started wiping her down too and before long I had an oil-soaked rag. I’ve noticed the engines on these planes lose a lot of oil, not surprisingly, since they’re almost 70 years old. Oh I know, they have certainly been rebuilt but I think the initial Pratt and Whitney models were that way too. I assume (from no experience of course) that they were made to be loose to a certain degree to prevent wear and it was natural to go through some oil. I found out the 17 uses 200 gallons of fuel/hour and a gallon of oil. In each wing, aft of the interior engines (#’s 2 and 3), up in the wheel storage area, is an oil tank of about 35 gallons for the engine’s use.

We wiped down the plane and I asked the Captain what else I could do for his plane and he said I could get the ladder and wipe down the engine casings (the big casing that you see at the front of the engine with all the lines going into it containing the crank and out of which the pistons project). He said “Number Four’s kind of juicy”. I got out the ladder, careful not to bang it against the props and cleaned each one, including the rubber and chrome lines. I started with number one and worked my way to the starboard. I found out that number three had a black hub where the others were chrome. And I got to number four and it WAS a bit juicy.

We finished up and I spent a little time by the ladder, chatting up folks. A couple of big old farm boys (men, actually) came up and were excited about looking inside. Both of them had not missed many meals around the dinner table but the larger of the two appeared to be about 6’6 or so and I’d say 300 pounds. When they went in, I stepped over to the bomb bay. At that point you were about four feet below the cat walk and you should have heard the caterwallin’ as they made their way to the bomb bay and then tried to skinny through it. Both of the planes not only have the catwalk, about 10” wide to walk on, but uprights at a couple of places going up to the top that supported the catwalk and on which the bombs hung. They angled as they went up so started at 10” at the catwalk and got wider on the way up but apparently not wide enough for these boys. It took a bit of exertion to get through there but they were determined and eventually made it. It was fun to watch.

I didn’t get to talk to many veterans but did chat with one fella and his wife as they looked on and I stood around the number four engine. A lot of questions started out “Hey, I’ve got a question for you” and this one was no different. He wanted to know who manned all the guns in the front since there were three (two cheek guns, one on each side, and a dual chin gun). I pondered a bit and allowed how I wasn’t sure either. As far as I knew, there was only two in the front: the navigator and the bombardier. I said I’d have to find out. I went back in and talked to Rick (I think) and he said it was simple, the bombardier had a horseshoe type sight and controls in front of him which ran the chin guns and the navigator alternated between cheek guns as the need showed itself. Makes sense to me. While I was up there I ran into Brad. He had two bright green stickers in his hand much like I had seen many lucky stiffs wearing that were to take the flights. Lo, and behold, we got on the number 3 flight and I was going to get the chance of a lifetime, riding the B-17! I had hoped I would get that chance but honestly had told Steve it was a thrill for me just to be able to be around the planes on the ground and they didn’t have to feel like they had to give me a ride. But I wasn’t turning it down!

I went back out to find my friend who asked the question and eventually found him in the shortening line to tour the plane. I dutifully gave him the answer he wanted then got out of the way as the last of the crowd got their turns. Eventually, everyone was brought back into the holding area just outside the hangar and the planes were readied for their flights. The first groups got a briefing with the pilots outside each plane and then were loaded up for the flights. They were half hour flights and when the planes would land, they’d taxi over, let one group out, and the other would load up. Our safety briefing was held in the air conditioning by Fred and you could tell he had done it once or twice. He added a bit of humor telling us if you got sick there were sick sacks in each first aid kit and to please use them. When done, hang onto it and take it with you. And be aware, airsickness is contagious; when one does it, invariably someone else will follow. I understand on one flight a fella got sick and just puked inside his shirt. Wasn’t me-I was wearing my good B-24 shirt and wouldn’t do that to it.

The first two flights of each plane went up and then we were called out to stand by to board the plane. It would be coming in such that the rear door would be facing us. Rick said for Brad and I to get to the front and run to the door where Steve would meet us and sit us up by the pilots. I think we were getting preferential treatment for sure. Steve was the Flight Engineer/Stewardess on the 17 flights and did a good job. When it landed, we hot-footed it for the door where Steve was standing. I felt kind of rude, going to the front like that but orders were orders. Steve shooed us through the bomb bay and sat us in the radio operator/flight engineer takeoff positions which were on the floor with our backs to the pilot and copilot’s seats. The seat belts were original and nothing fancy. I thought I was a reasonably intelligent fella but after a few tsk-tsks by Steve he showed us how to buckle them up. It didn’t take long and the engines came up to speed. As we taxied, Steve took up his position standing in the upper turret and looking out for obstructions, etc. I got a great view of his hairy legs all the way up to his suntanned head peering out the plexiglass. Then, off into the wild blue yonder over Salina. Steve gave us the “unbuckle the seatbelt” signal and the tour began.

We were told there were two rules: don’t bother the pilots and don’t fall out of the plane, both of which I intended to follow. But other than that, we were free to go anywhere but the tail gun position just being courteous of others who wanted to see the same things. Brad and I wanted to see the nose first since we were the closest to it anyway, so we dropped into the hell hole (the crawlway from under the flight deck to the nose) and got to spend quite a bit of time taking pictures and rubbernecking out the windows. There was even a plexiglass bubble forward of the pilots and above the navigator’s position where you could look back at them and take a picture. We bombed some imaginary targets and shot down some imaginary German fighters then back through the hell hole to the RO/FE position. That hatch I spoke of earlier was open to the sky and we were free to stick out our heads, or anything else we weren’t afraid of losing, into the slipstream. I took off my hat and was careful with my glasses. It was amazing-a big giant hole in the top. Made for some good ventilation throughout also. It was here that Steve showed me a couple of holes in the fuselage that looked out into the interior of the wing. I told him my granddad was a small man and one of his jobs at the Boeing factory was to work in the wings.

We moved on back through the bomb bay where Steve showed us the manual crank positions for the wheels and bomb bay in case they wouldn’t open. Then on to the waist gunners positions and got a chance to shoot down some more imaginary planes and strafe some unsuspecting cows (Oh, George, not the livestock!). Way too soon, Steve gave us the “buckle up” sign and we scurried back to our positions. Landing was a bit of a “bounce-a-roo” and then we taxied and rolled to a stop back at the hangar. Steve disappeared and out the forward crew “Gregory Peck” hatch. Steve said we could come out this way too if we wanted. We wanted! He said to just not fall out as it was a good drop. We got to swing out just like the real boys did and drop to the ground. Hard on my old body but I didn’t let on and would have gone around for another go if they’d let me.

By now the excitement was beginning to wane and it was getting late. The adrenaline was bleeding off I suddenly realized I was REALLY tired and REALLY sun and wind burned. The crowd left and Steve, Brad, and I loaded into the Blue Goose to head to the Hickory Hut for some more BBQ. As we pulled in we realized the little restaurant was only open inside until 2030 and it was now 2050. Drive up closed at 2100. YIKES! We pulled around and ordered, got our goodies (except for Brad’s Mountain Dew) and drove to the Quality Inn where we enjoyed our repast on the tables in the atrium of the Quality Inn. I have GERD (Reflux) and it’s not good for me to eat so late. Also, I hadn’t had any carbonation for about three years but got a root beer with my meal. At this point, I didn’t care. I had flown in a B-17! I could die now and no big deal so I lived life on the edge and ate BBQ. Surprisingly, it was excellent, especially the burnt ends.

We toddled off to our rooms where the pup promptly turned on Sports Center for noise and crawled under the covers. I stayed up until almost midnight sorting and uploading pictures to Facebook but there just wasn’t enough time in the day to do these notes also. Besides I’d have time to write later. What more excitement could there be after this great day? Well, just when you think the Lord has showered you with all the blessings you can stand, He says “hide and watch what’s next”.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Every now and then events come together in a perfect storm and this was one of those weekends when the unexpected happened. I started call duty Friday night and was not expecting this weekend to be anything spectacular; a quiet weekend waiting on the phone to ring.
However Friday got off to a rousing start when Kathi called (and texted and emailed and ...) that she had found the perfect boat-the one we (she) had been looking for. Big enough to stand up in, down below and hopefully the last one we'll buy. This is it. Gotta go look at it. But this story isn't really about the boat. She contacted the owner in the eastern part of KC at Lake Jacomo and it was set up to look it over on Saturday afternoon.
I had already planed to go to the funeral of an old friend, John Feldman Bradley, at 1 on Saturday where I was slated to sing (and lead music too I found out). We were then going to go over and look at the boat. No big deal. John was a good friend, had lived a long life, knew the Lord and had gone home to glory. Good deal.
It wasn't until I was sitting there waiting for the service to start that I overheard John's brother talking to the pastor It seemed he'd lost his notes and wouldn't be able to speak for John and, as he told John's story to the pastor, he was all broke up. One of the things he said was that John was a WWII Navy veteran. My ears perked up as all I saw was the urn with his ashes and a folded flag behind it. Could it be one of the greatest generation was passing and no one was going to recognize it? I asked what his rank was when he got out and his brother said "oh, not much. Seaman Second I think". After he left I told the pastor I'd like to do something for John in memory when I got done with the singing.
It seemed like a simple thing-I was going to march up to the altar, salute John and the flag, say a word or two in a nice firm loud voice for all to hear, and smartly do a left face and back to my seat. But as I started to say the words that John deserved recognition for his service, I broke up. I called on my buddies, retired veterans Mark Larson of the US Coast Guard and Richard Puglisi, to meet me at the altar. We fell in, I ordered "Present Arms" and we saluted old John. I was able to squeak out, "Seaman John Bradley, you are relieved from duty. Rest in peace" "Order Arms" and we all went back to our seats. I wanted to do it for John but felt miserable I had not been able to corral my emotions to do it well.

It was with those feeling still simmering that we went to look at the boat. It was old, made in 1970, but the right price and on the drive home we called the owner to tell him we'd take it. As we continued the drive we decided instead of naming it something funny or silly (which I generally do), we decided to try to find a hero to name it after. When we got home, we went to CMOHS.org, a listing of all the Congressional Medal of Honor recipients, and looked one from 1970, the year the boat was made. Of course it put us in the Viet Nam era. I looked for all that were deceased and received the medal in 1970. As you can imagine they were all worthy of choosing but since the boat was originally built in England, we settled on the S/V (sailing vessel) Glenn English, Jr. after US Army S/Sgt Glenn English, Jr., Co E, 3rd Battalion, 173rd Airborne Brigade from Altoona, PA. His bio is at the bottom.

Well, I thought the emotion was over but lo and behold, I came home from church and was looking at FB when I came across the obituary of my sister-in-law's dad who passed away in 2009. Her name is Barb Nicely and his name was Russell G. B. Anderson. Here's his obit. Russell-G.-B.-Anderson You should read it. Suffice it to say, he was a great man, flying 35 missions over Europe, receiving he DFC and many other honors and retiring as a Lt. Colonel. I wish I had realized his service when he was alive so I could have thanked him in person, like I was able to on the Wings of Freedom tour I've been writing about here.
The old emotions were right up there again as I wrote Barb a note then distributed it to all my family, friends, and SUVCW brothers so they too could read his story and remember. He will not soon be forgotten and rightly so.
So, the weekend is coming to a close. It's Sunday afternoon. We pick up the boat and will proudly put S/Sgt English's name on the stern. Come along, and sail on the Glenn E. But one thing you'll have to do before you come on board-salute the flag in honor of John, Russell, Glenn, and many others. You'll be sailing with a hero and it's not me.

S/Sgt Glenn English, Jr

Citation

S/Sgt. English was riding in the lead armored personnel carrier in a 4-vehicle column when an enemy mine exploded in front of his vehicle. As the vehicle swerved from the road, a concealed enemy force waiting in ambush opened fire with automatic weapons and anti-tank grenades, striking the vehicle several times and setting it on fire. S/Sgt. English escaped from the disabled vehicle and, without pausing to extinguish the flames on his clothing, rallied his stunned unit. He then led it in a vigorous assault, in the face of heavy enemy automatic weapons fire, on the entrenched enemy position. This prompt and courageous action routed the enemy and saved his unit from destruction. Following the assault, S/Sgt. English heard the cries of 3 men still trapped inside the vehicle. Paying no heed to warnings that the ammunition and fuel in the burning personnel carrier might explode at any moment, S/Sgt. English raced to the vehicle and climbed inside to rescue his wounded comrades. As he was lifting 1 of the men to safety, the vehicle exploded, mortally wounding him and the man he was attempting to save. By his extraordinary devotion to duty, indomitable courage, and utter disregard for his own safety, S/Sgt. English saved his unit from destruction and selflessly sacrificed his life in a brave attempt to save 3 comrades. S/Sgt. English's conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the cost of his life were an inspiration to his comrades and are in the highest traditions of the U.S. Army.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Well, I’ll have to admit that this is actually written on Saturday, the 11th at 1530 (and finished at 2318 after my 50th birthday celebration). As you’ll read below, and also in future parts, I was much too busy to get notes out on either day and have just now finished sorting pictures and videos.

We were up bright and early at 0600 and once again, much to my dismay, I realized I had left another necessary item behind, a razor. It was good I had razor shaved rather than electric razor shaved on Wednesday so I felt it would be later in the day at least until I looked like I had not shaved. Asked Brad if he had a razor but of course, he said he wouldn’t need to shave today or much at all until he got back home. Nertz. Dressed and off to the free breakfast which included biscuits and gravy, eggs, and about anything any red-blooded American guy would need, including Fruit Loops. Brad and I caught up with Steve and met Stu Eberhart, the Mustang pilot, as well as Chris, the Liberator mechanic. Stu had flown for Pan-Am and according to legend, WAS a legend. Steve said if one wanted to fly in the Reno air races, Stu was the guy who had to sign off for the privilege. He was an older man (probably 60’s) quiet and reserved. Chris was younger and well tanned, showing his time out on, around, and under the planes. We finished up and went out back to meet at the rental Ford with the rest of the crew that were there-a total of seven. Fred drove the Ford and was general ram-rod. He’s one of the Collings Foundation trustees and holds the credit card to say “fill er up” at the various airports. He’s also the one who hornswoggled the motel into the good rate for us. He’s retired after 30 years in the Air Force and must have been a jet pilot if the trip from the motel to the airport was any evidence. I had to scoot in the old Blue Goose to keep up.

Gunner Wiles

The Salina airport has been well-maintained and the folks who work there, from Tim, the airport manager, to Gunner, his 2nd in command, to Melissa, the PR gal. The airport authority had taken over what was originally the Smoky Hill Army Base, then the Schilling AFB, and maintains it. Gunner allowed how Tim could have worked at any airport anywhere in the world but chose to stay at Salina. His skills were obvious. We were to be at the new hangar and it currently held all the Kansas State-Salina aviation school’s planes on display. On the other side, opening onto the tarmac, was the people portion of the hangar, a very nice two story glass building with VERY nice a/c, and good view of the flight line. Even those who couldn’t get outside had a great view. The PX was set up in the lobby area and Steve led Brad and I out to the 24 to begin the ritual.

And sitting right outside when we got there was my interest since boyhood-the Consolidated B-24 Liberator. I’d loved it since reading the book “Ploesti”, the story of the famous low level raid from Libya to Romania, when a young boy. The most pig-ugly beautiful old bomber around. This particular one is the ONLY flying model left in the world out of 19,000 produced. First Steve gave us a guided tour through the 24 as we set ‘er up. We watched while Chris took out the key and opened the little door on the starboard (that’s right for some of you) fuselage forward of the bomb bay, and accessed the hydraulic valves that opened the bomb bay. The doors on the 24 roll right up the side of the fuselage on each side like a garage door and are about the same weight. I had read (and we were told this was true several times) that they were light weight so that a bomb (some as small as 250 lbs) could be dropped THROUGH them in case the doors wouldn’t open to prevent the necessity of taking them fused back home and have them go off on landing (or any other nasty bumps). Once opened, we ducked under and set up the exit stairs under the bomb bay and Steve showed us into the lower portion of the forward section. The 24 is kind of like a split level house, with the cockpit for the pilot and co-pilot on the upper level and the area for the radio operator and flight engineer on the lower part to the rear and navigator, bombardier, and nose gunner on the forward section. Then connecting the two lower portions, which goes under the flight deck, is the “hell hole” or crawl way along the starboard side and the nose wheel assembly takes up the port side. Rather than crawl through however, we went back out the bomb bay and up to the nose wheel where we could crawl up in front of the wheel and pull ourselves on the front lower deck where the forward crew sat. There was a seat for the bombardier and a Norden bomb sight made by the Victor Cash Register Company. Lots of glass to look down and around. Between the nose wheel and the seat, the navigator station had a fold-down table with plotter and when he was working, he looked aft. He also got a good view of the part of the flight deck where the pilot/copilot’s legs were-the rudder pedals, etc. FILLED with cables and wires. Kind of like taking everything out of your car below the dash and sitting in the engine compartment while looking toward the back of the car. We got a good look around, including the nose turret which appeared to have been perched on the nose in a cut out of the fuselage. Not pretty but functional.

Back out the nose wheel hole which was the bailout exit for the forward crew. When closed, the doors were painted red as a caution since there was nothing holding them shut. If you step on them in flight you’d better have a chute on because you’re leaving the plane. We go back to the rear behind the bomb bay where we open the rear hatch on the underside of the plane. When closed the hatch is part of the walkway to the rear turret gunner. A ladder is attached here and hung on two cables and will be the entry point for the tour. Tours then go forward from there through the plane, past the waist gunner position, around the ball turret, then into the bomb bay and finish just aft of the forward crew compartment which had a net over the entrance and a red “no entry” sign. No one was to go forward of that area but Steve said we could make an exception if the right one came along with the right story and as the day wore on, I took full advantage of that opportunity.

We got out the rags and a varying assortment of cleaning supplies from Pledge (for the plexi-glass), to WD-40 (for the skin-the plane’s that is), to Windex (for the glass). We got the rags out and after a crash course in what to wipe on where proceeded to start wiping down the oil residue that seemed to be everywhere. Steve showed us on the port side of the forward bomb bay where the fuel lines were. There were four, and each one had a little spigot that, when turned on, allowed us to drain out some aviation fuel into a water bottle. It smelled a lot like paint thinner that I used when I was making model airplanes. “Why get some of that?”, you ask? Makes a great all around cleaner, says Steve. He peeled of the water bottle label and proceeded to advise us to keep it separated from our drinking water bottle. A good bit of advice, I’m-a-thinkin’.

Brad and I spent the next good while wiping down the plane from front to back with Chris giving a bit of advice from time to time on proper wiping procedure. While we were doing this, the others were setting up to begin letting the crowd in. Some were a bit disappointed as the B-17 hadn’t arrived yet, having blown the rear wheel and damaging the rim at Pueblo, Colorado, the last stop. Since one can’t get a tire/wheel assembly at the local Advance Auto Parts, one had to be FedEx’d in from who knows where and the question of the day was “When is the 17 going to arrive?” “Soon, soon, soon, was the answer. It would be 1600 before it finally got there so a LOT of people went through the 24 in the meantime.

While standing around, the first flight for the P-51 Mustang made ready. It is a C model, the only flying C model and is rare in that it has two seats-front and rear. The fortunate rider (at $2200 per half hour) can actually handle the controls (under the watchful eye of Captain Stu of course). An older gentleman was strapped in and the whole crowd was totally engaged in the process. We all had to watch from afar since it was outside the yellow ropes and waited impatiently to hear the big Merlin cough then start spinning the prop in that classic Mustang sound. Soon they were airborne and attention turned back to the 24.

I was totally content with hanging around the 24 and giving the appearance that I was cleaning while keeping my ears and eyes open. I liberally climbed into the bomb bay and nose wheel area watching folks and answering questions like I was somebody. I really wasn’t an expert on the thing by any means but have spent my whole life studying the Lib and was surprised at the fact I really did know the answers to some questions that were asked. Steve had given us a crash course-the engines were two section seven piston radials one bank set behind the other, this was the ONLY flying 24 left in the world out of 19,000, the glass in the nose turret was plexi-glass except for the large piece about one inch thick on a set of rails that slides up and over the head of the gunner or down in front, the 24 was largely a hydraulically controlled plane while the 17 was largely electric, it was hard to fly and keep in trim as it constantly tried to pitch up and down, the superchargers and the fact that they worked on the 24 but had been disconnected on the 17, and so forth. It was a joy just talking about the old girl with folks. The weather was hot, in the upper 90’s, and windy from the south so was hot work but I didn’t notice it much at first.

As I walked around, I got to noticing older fellas, and began to take a chance on just walking up to them and asking, “Did you spend some time in one of these?” Many times the answer was “yes” or “no, but I was around a lot” or similar expressions. But each one had a unique story and I got the chance to look them in the eye, shake their hand, and sincerely say thanks for their service. I may have even saluted one or two. After a couple of days I’m sorry to say but the names and stories are starting to blend together. I hope I get them right and hope if they read this and I don’t they’ll still know I tried and am honored to have heard their story one more time before they pass from this world.

I talked to Chuck Vsetecka from Victoria, Kansas, home of the Cathedral of the Plains. He was one of the first and I put his name on the back of Melissa’s card (above mentioned PR gal for the Salina Airport). I then added the names of Lowell Hatesohl and Martin Stenseng before deciding it was smart to get a bigger piece of paper and resorted to my folder where I started jotting names. Chuck had flown as a radar operator on the L and M version of the 24 in the south Pacific. That particular model was rigged with radar. He sat behind the bomb bay and ran the radar set that was tied to the navigator. All their missions were low level so they never used the oxygen tanks or superchargers for which the Lib was fitted for high altitude bombing. Their primary targets were always naval and secondary was land targets.

Lowell Hatesohl and me

Lowell Hatesohl was a small man, not very outstanding in any way. He was quietly standing by the starboard wheel under the wing in the shade when I met him. I asked him my question and he confirmed he had been around 24’s with a supply group in Benghazi. He was supporting the groups who flew the famous low level raid to Ploesti, Romania and remembered it quite well. He even had a folder with a newspaper article from Arkansas City, Ks in 1997. It was about Gilbert Hadley, the pilot of “Hadley’s Harem” who had to ditch in the Mediterranean off the coast of Turkey. The story is mentioned in the book, ‘Ploesti’. I didn’t read it closely at first but have since I got home and I’m amazed. With the nose blown off the plane, the fuselage buckled and the bombardier killed, Lt. Hadley ditched the plane. He died in the ditching, drowning with his copilot but seven of the crew got out. After 54 years, Roy Newton, one of the two remaining crew members found the plane, recovered their bodies, and, as a tribute to the man who saved his life, had he and the copilot buried and memorialized. Newton noted that to the day of Hadley’s mother’s death in 1973, she still held out hope he was still alive. “They gave me a good 50 years on my life and I feel this is a good payback”, said Newton. A lot of folks wouldn’t have gone to the effort, but they did. It’s a matter of honor. I’m sure glad I met Lowell Hatesohl.

As I moved about I was able to answer the questions about crew members, how many, and where they were. Many were unfamiliar with how many were on a crew and I wanted to make sure they knew things like that. I showed them my Ploesti book and told many that it was required reading for my daughters before they left my home, including the handwritten note I put inside the front cover. It reminded them that when these planes went down, ten men went with it and not only they were lost, but the genealogy of their families was changed forever. Such ones paid for our respect with their blood and our respect is the least duty owed them. As I told many young folks about this, it choked me up when they would nod as they grasped this fact.

Martin Stenseg at the waist gun

Ninety-six year old Martin Stenseg was in a wheelchair with his wife and apparently granddaughter and grandson. They were clucking around him as he pulled himself out of the wheelchair and up the stairs into the aft of the plane, determined to see it. He got to the waist gun position where I got a good shot of him and his grandkids with the 50 caliber. I’m not sure how he got out but later he and his wife were in the shade and I got to chat with them. He flew in the Navy version of the Liberator and also the PBY. He carried with him his original flight logs, in mint condition, and allowed Brad and I to look them over. He was the Flight Engineer and had meticulous notes about crew, planes, and engine types. He and his wife were a joy to talk to.

Jack and Jack

I met Jack Walstrom standing under the starboard wing. He was a quiet man with a somewhat puzzled look on his face most of the time, wearing a t-shirt showing a crew standing at the nose of a B-17, the “Hustl’n Hussy”. In his hand he had a print out from the 398th Bomb Group website. During our conversation he continually apologized when he couldn’t remember as he had Alzheimers Disease. He pointed out himself in the picture, a fine strapping young man in a flight suit quite different from the man I saw. As he apologized for forgetting things I thought, “my friend, you have no reason to apologize to anyone. You’re a hero”. We were joined by another Jack, really John (never got his last name) from New York where, he told me, guys named John were regularly called Jack. I asked him to join my other friend Jack for a picture. He said he wasn’t of the right era, being a Marine Korean and Viet Nam veteran. I allowed as how I wanted a picture of two heroes named Jack and the era they fought wasn’t a problem. I like that picture.

I then bumped into Mel Needham of the 15th Air Force, 459th Bomb Group, based in Italy. He said it was in the boot heel. He was a bomb sight mechanic, one of only three in his group and their job was to keep up the bomb sights. He did the check rides with bombardiers after working on the sights. He recounted one time in Massachusetts when he had to ride in the winter without fleece clothing, in the front of the B-24, and the only place to sit was cross-legged on the navigator’s table. They had to unwind him and rub the feeling back into his legs to get him out. He was one of the first of many I ran into from the 15th in Italy.

Bill Jamieson was next. He wasn’t a veteran but a biker type about my age or so, with a picture album under his arm. He told me his dad, Howard, had passed on but had been a tail gunner with the 450th BG in Foggia, Italy. The picture album had many photos of his dad and the 24 in flight and on the ground, some crash landed. I told him it was a treasure not only because of the photos of his dad, but from my reading I knew there were few pictures of the 24 in flight. He had a dozen or more. He was the first for whom I broke the “no trespassing” rules. I took his camera, took down the sign to the rear turret, and got a shot of him standing there and them some more in the turret from inside and out. I then took him up front for the grand tour of the forward section where he got many more pictures. He had a grin from ear to ear and many times expressed his appreciation. It really didn’t go to me but to the folks of the Collings Foundation who took the time to restore the Witchcraft. I told him his daddy paid the ticket for his special tour and then this old grease cleaner accepted his thanks on their behalf. I later saw him and Mel Needham swapping notes and looking at pictures.

Dale Grothusen

I went back and was standing in the forward section of the bomb bay out of the sun when along the bomb bay center rail comes smiling, 90 year old Dale Grothusen of Ellsworth, Ks. As I listened to him chatting with other vets, he said he was trained as a flight engineer on the Liberator but as was then assigned to the Fortress. We chatted for awhile and I asked him if he’d like to step on onto the lower section of the forward compartment where the flight engineer station was and look around. His eyes sparkled and he allowed as he would so I took down the barrier and let him in. A few kids wanted to follow him in but I explained to them that he once flew on these and that gave him preferential treatment. He climbed into the compartment and slowly pulled himself up to the lower deck without bumping his head on the lower portion of the upper turret, where he could look around and took a peek inside the cockpit. I then asked him to sit on the bench along the port side and got a picture of a grinning Dale with a “B-17G” hat on his head. I asked if he had email and I’d send the picture. He said he didn’t but his wife did so I gave him my card and email address, helped him out, and he and his buddy managed to get out of the bomb bay talking as they went. His wife emailed for the picture, by-the-way, before I got home!

I enjoyed spending the day talking that way, occasionally taking a well behaved little boy up in the nose wheel (accompanied by me of course to keep him from mischief) where he could look around and a grinning momma could get his picture through the nose plexiglass. I know I fudged the rules a bit but what could they do, fire me? Seriously though, I’d never let anything happen to that beautiful, ugly old gal. It was an honor to run my hands over her skin, to look at the amazing wires, cables, hydraulic lines and so forth, smell the unique smell of old oil and well cared for steel and think of what she and her many sisters may have been like in her heyday.

I spent most of the day doing that, running inside to get answers to questions from folks like the pilot, Jim Goulsby, and others. I was having as much fun as a kid at his first amusement park. Brad kept telling me come into the a/c and help sell tickets, or work the PX or something different for awhile. I always said I would…in a little bit. He and Steve did finally get me to come in to eat some good BBQ from the Hickory Hut but I didn’t stay long. I drank a lot of water (I don’t think I ever even went to the bathroom-it was HOT) and basked in the shade of the old Liberator. Then the B-17 showed up and that’s where I’ll continue my story in the next part.